Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 1804-1864 / 2008-07-03 00:00:00

Some of the good people are rubbing their eyes, thereby
intimating that they have been wrapped, as it were, in a sort of holy
trance by the fervor of their devotion. There is a young man, a
third-rate coxcomb, whose first care is always to flourish a white
handkerchief and brush the seat of a tight pair of black silk
pantaloons which shine as if varnished. They must have been made of
the stuff called "everlasting," or perhaps of the same piece as
Christian's garments in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, for he put them
on two summers ago and has not yet worn the gloss off. I have taken a
great liking to those black silk pantaloons. But now, with nods and
greetings among friends, each matron takes her husband's arm and paces
gravely homeward, while the girls also flutter away after arranging
sunset walks with their favored bachelors. The Sabbath eve is the eve
of love. At length the whole congregation is dispersed. No; here, with
faces as glossy as black satin, come two sable ladies and a sable
gentleman, and close in their rear the minister, who softens his
severe visage and bestows a kind word on each. Poor souls! To them the
most captivating picture of bliss in heaven is "There we shall be
white!"
All is solitude again. But hark! A broken warbling of voices, and now,
attuning its grandeur to their sweetness, a stately peal of the organ.
Who are the choristers? Let me dream that the angels who came down
from heaven this blessed morn to blend themselves with the worship of
the truly good are playing and singing their farewell to the earth.
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